


Once Upon A September

by RosaClearwater



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, Anastasia AU, Angst and introspection with eventual happy ending, F/F, Gen, I've been meaning to do this for about a year now, It is an Anastasia tribute after all, Let's get to it shall we?, M/M, Shoot fans have something to look forward in the Windy City chapter ;D :), Though to be fair it does take place in the POI universe, slow-build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-07-20 23:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16148297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaClearwater/pseuds/RosaClearwater
Summary: Harold had never been able to remember a single thing about his childhood, other than his first name and a quirky fascination with birds. He didn’t know where he came from, he didn’t know if he had any family or if he had another life that his amnesia had long since stolen from him.All he knew is that this is what he was supposed to be doing._._Or, the Anastasia/Person of Interest fusion that has been in the works for ages.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dancing_dog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancing_dog/gifts).



> For those waiting for an update on the Zero Day AU, it's coming your way :) I just had to start putting this up.
> 
> Thank you, dancing_dog for requesting this back in Relevance -- I've been thinking of how to turn this into reality for quite some time :)
> 
> Also, this is my heads up: 
> 
> It’s going to be an Anastasia/Person of Interest crossover where it’ll be more POI with some influence from Anastasia. It Will Not be an identical retelling of either story (and therefore, the lyrics might be a little bit different too, to match this story).
> 
> And, finally, in an effort to be fair, both stories are going to differ in their details -- dates, ages, all that jazz. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The house was wrapped in shadows, the darkening sky finally giving way to the stars. It was an unusually cool September night, one of the rarer occasions where hot chocolate or a rousing fire could be called for.

 

Tucked away in his bedroom, a little boy eagerly ditched both the idea of a rousing fire _or_ hot chocolate. Instead, said ideas were abandoned in favor of devouring the books encompassing his bed.

 

(Children’s stories had long been abandoned for technical journals he still couldn’t possibly hope to completely understand.)

 

In any case, he was eager to drink in the knowledge, to add to his "memory banks" – as his favorite show would refer to them as.

 

“Harold? Are you still up?”

 

It would be too late to hide away his collection of knowledge by this point. That is, if his mom felt remembered to properly check-in on him.

  
“Harold, we can always _not_ go to New York if you want to spend all your time in your room.”

 

It was in this moment Harold remembered that, unlike his dad, his mom did remember to check-in on him. Furthermore, he remembered that, for all of the reading he did, it was he who was the open book.

 

“But,” All the books were immediately shut closed in protest of this possibility. “We simply _have_ to go to New York! It’s absolutely _vital_ and _necessary_ and—and— and we simply have to go!”

 

She stood there in silent bemusement with arms crossed and a tilted stare accompanied by a weary smile – all the while ignoring the fact that a six-and-a-half-year old (his words of late, not hers) just used “vital” and “necessary” in an everyday sentence.

 

“If you promise to go to bed right now, I promise to take us to New York.” He nodded, his glasses almost falling off his face due to his excitement. Her smile widened at this endearing act before she began to turn back to the door.

 

But, there was one thing he couldn't let go of just yet. 

 

"Together in New York?" It was their phrase of late, something he chorused to himself to get through bullying, frustration, and the boredom that accompanied being in the middle-of-nowhere, Iowa.

 

"Together in New York." She turned back to him, a hand waiting to turn off the light. "Good ni--"

 

“-- Will you tell me a story about New York?" He glanced at the floor, realizing he just interrupted his mother and that was probably wasn't the smartest of things to do. "Please?”

 

She paused.

 

Harold hadn’t asked for a bedtime story since he was nearing five – a time where he felt that, he was at his "most maturest state of maturity" and therefore didn’t need stories to be read to him. She had accepted it gracefully, but had hoped that he would change his mind one day.

 

“Well, there is a story I do believe I haven’t told you.” She could feel him leaning forward in anticipation without having to turn back around. “But, there _are_ books still on your bed. _And,_ you’re not in your pajamas.”

 

She gave him a minute to complete his tasks, withholding a grin at the sound of scampering feet that were normally so calm and poised.

 

“If I were to turn around, what would it be that I see?”

 

“Impeccable timing.” She couldn’t hold back a snort at this, pivoting around to see that her little boy was right after all. The books were neatly sectioned off far enough from his bed that he’d have a little way to go if he really wanted to read tonight. Furthermore, pajamas were now adorning his frame, and he was already tucked into bed.

 

For a word he’d just learned about a week ago, he sure was getting “impeccable” down.

 

“Now it’s time for you to hold your end of the bargaim.” Somehow, he managed to be both assertive and incredibly shy. The assertiveness evidenced by the fact that he dared to say such a statement. The shyness clearly outlined in his voice fading by the end of said statement.

 

“’Bargain’,” She corrected gently, knowing he’d prefer accuracy to ignorance. Already, she was beginning to walk back to his bed. “And, what’s the magic word?”

 

“'Bargain'.” He repeated, still caught in the last conversation and seemingly tasting the word as he spoke. Then, his face cringed at her word choice, as she knew it would. Though, naturally, he did understand the context of the request. “Please.”

 

Harold had given up on magic since the age of four, ever since he explained exactly how the magician at Susie’s party performed all of her tricks. Now, the word merely brought a grimace or an exasperated stare.

 

“Well, with a look like that I don’t know if a story is right for tonight.”

 

“ _Mooommm!_ ” It was only with knowledge and curiosity that Harold ever got this petulant, much to her amusement. Fortunately, even though he probably could call her out on her bluff, he wasn’t willing to push his luck.

 

(Aka, the little boy schooled his features into something more amiable and something that was far more likely to result in having a story told.)

 

“Well, now, I think it _could_ be time for a story.” He barely refrained from cheering, having long since decided that cheering in such an obvious fashion was also beneath him.

 

(She saw through that immediately. Saw through it, and still decided to indulge him.)

 

And, so, Harold's mother began her tale.

 

She spoke of her side of the family – the side that has lived in the Big Apple for years and would never, _ever_ leave. She spoke of her eccentric grandma with her inspiring inventions and her grandfather, who was always willing to teach and always willing to motivate every student.

 

And, by the time she got to the part of the story her little boy hadn’t heard, he was already fast asleep.

 

_._

 

The fire had started long after they were all asleep, but long before any help could come.

 

It had been just an accident. One that resulted in the lost of two wonderful people, the permanent crippling of the only survivor, and the breaking of a promise made just hours before:

 

They were never meant to be together in New York.


	2. "It's Like a Memory From a Dream."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave gave him another minute of awkward, simpering staring and posturing before retreating back to his office. After that happened, and seeing as how there was not another soul in the actual store, Harold got to do what he’d done about 3,191 times beforehand:
> 
>  
> 
> Stare at the store before questioning his life decisions for the next hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re still in set-up land, and not quite in the realm of Anastasia just yet. But we’re definitely getting there!

“Morning, Harold.”

 

_Oh. Right. It’s still morning._

 

“Good morning, D—”

 

“Hey, listen, that database you were coding…” Here comes the thinly veiled patronizing tone. “We’re gonna need it a little faster, okay?” His boss shrugged in a seemingly noncommittal fashion, barely withholding his arrogant smile. “You gotta keep up.”

 

“Okay. I’ll see what I can do, Dave.” Just another thing to add to his unending list of inane tasks.

 

It wasn’t that it was difficult to code or that he struggled with technology -- far from it. Rather, it was the fact that coding databases was possibly going to be the most interesting of the tasks that Dave put him in charge of this week, and it was… a facile task, to say the least.

 

Though, let it be known that coding _was_ infinitely preferable to interacting with customers.

 

Let it also be known that it was the human interaction aspect that was more of a priority for his boss.

 

(... Unfortunately.)

                                                  

Dave gave him another minute of awkward, simpering staring and posturing before retreating back to his office. After that happened, and seeing as how there was not another soul in the actual store, Harold got to do what he’d done about 3,191 times beforehand:

 

Stare at the store before questioning his life decisions for the next hour.

 

It was an off-brand kind of tech store, the type of place that would probably only survive for a few more years before a big shot buys the space and takes over. In any case, the pay’s decent, the work is just a step up from insanely boring on good days, and it’s not like he has anywhere else to go.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

After all, there’s no family he knows of, no names to track, and no home to call. He may hate his boss, find this work to be incredibly trivial at best, and may want to hit the road and just drive _anywhere…_

 

“Uh, excuse me, but,”

 

But, he can’t. He has no reason to, there’s nothing running in his favor, and it’s a perfectly functional living situation… even if he’s been wanting to run away since the first day.

 

“Harold?”

 

Even if he’s been staring at the same technology for years. Even if the same dull conversations occur on what is almost a weekly basis.

“Harold, are you even paying attention?”

 

_Oh._

 

“You’ll have to excuse his inattention, it’s just his special way.”

 

_It’s going to be that kind of a morning._

 

If there were a good time to curse, now would probably be it:

 

He’d been off in his reverie for who knows how long, to the point where he missed the elderly couple coming into the store – and, judging from their faces, it’s been at least three minutes.

 

What makes the situation even more embarrassing is that his boss has been calling him for probably the last two minutes.

 

“Software Engineer of the Month, eh?” The elderly man continued to pull him out of his thoughts with that rhetorical question. “That’s… impressive.”

 

(The man’s tone said otherwise.)

 

So, they had enough time to look at the plaques of past employee awards. Which really only included him for the last few years, seeing as how everyone else either eventually quit or got out of town altogether.

 

(His ears were definitely turning red from mortification; he could feel it.)

 

“Thank you.” Harold could swear Dave softly snorted at this delayed response, but continued on. “And, thank you for your patience. How can I help you today?”

 

Turns out, once they got into the crux of the problem, it was far easier to interact with the couple: Sammy and Veda were convinced by their daughter to “finally” get into the world of technology. This had happened, of course, when they were driving through the town and their granddaughter ruined their only maps by spilling grape juice all over them.

 

(Said granddaughter was also apparently on a mission sanctioned by her mother: to get her grandparents to actually walk out with smartphones.)

 

“So, what it really comes down to, in this case,” Harold tried his best to give a winning smile, but was pretty sure it came out to be a grimace. “Is the approach you’d like to take with your smartphone device. What I mean by that is, what are the priorities you have when it comes to being in possession of one?”

 

“Grandma,” The granddaughter was finally losing patience with the whole situation, something that actually impressed Harold – he’d witnessed many older children with a significantly lower level of patience seemingly explode after being here for only a minute.

 

“Not now, sweetie.”

 

“Can you break it down for me again?”

 

“Of course.” This was one of the harder parts of these conversations – Harold was never good at explaining his process of thinking succinctly – but after about seven years, he’d learn to accept that it just came with the territory.

 

“Grandma,”

 

“Not now, Leila.” But, the child was not having it.

 

“I just want to know what a ‘bargaim’ is!”

 

“‘Bargain’.” “It’s ‘bargain’, sweetie.” Harold and Veda instinctually corrected her at the same time. And without a second thought, he started to continue, “ Furthermore, a bargain is—”

 

_“Now it’s time for you to hold up your end of the bargaim.”_

 

That’s when a memory slaps itself into his brain, pleading to be allowed to come back to the surface. That’s when he gives a jolt of shock because he knows that voice and he thinks it’s _his_ voice but he’s never heard it quite like that before.

 

“Are you alright?” But, Harold’s already stumbling into the sounds of a child’s requests and a woman’s dulcet tones. He’s not leaning on a counter; he’s falling into a cushiony mattress. That’s not a meticulous work uniform adorning his frame, those are pajamas he’s hastily put on, and –

 

_“Will you tell me another story about New York?”_

 

“Harold?” Veda’s questioning him, but he hears another’s voice. A more familiar voice that he’s never recalled before.

 

It’s the only voice he wants to listen to right now.

 

_“Harold, we can always_ not _go to New York if you want to spend all your time in your room.”_

 

_No,_ Hands smack against the unforgiving counter without registering the pain, _No – we have to go. It’s… neces-- impor-- vital?_

 

He reaches out to grab the strands of recognition in front of him, but only comes face to face with a little girl who looks scared. The woman fades from the background, slipping into a carpet that’s now almost a decade old while the equivalents of "Are you okay?" bounce around the space. And all he can do is flinch at this, taken aback by the moment that was already departing from memory.

 

_Come back._

 

_… Please._

 

“Harold, no one has left -- who are you talking to?”

 

He’s not in that house, he’s on the ground. There are no books or pajamas -- only work uniforms and cell phones as far as the eye can see. 

 

And everyone – including Dave – is staring at him.

 

(And it’s not a dream.)


	3. Dancing Smirks, Painted Belgian Malinois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is everything alright?” _Because I may have just quit my job and somehow abandoned my only income for a hallucination, but you look like you’re in trouble. And I apparently have nothing better to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience -- I cannot describe how much it is appreciated with everything going on right now. To make up for the delay, I've tried to make this as lengthy as possible.
> 
> And, I'm pleased to say that we're meeting another key character. A character I'm pretty sure you can already guess from the title of the chapter ;)

“Harold just has some company errands he forgot to run earlier.” Dave was already ushering him past the couple and out the door the moment the man was off the ground.

 

“Are you sure you’re alr—”

 

“Quite fine, thank you.” Having had no idea what on Earth had just happened, Harold was happy to get out of that shop and just regain his bearings.

 

(Though, on second thought, perhaps he had better luck with the elderly couple: his boss currently looked furious, concerned, and disturbingly pleased underneath that blooming sneer.)

 

“I’m so sorry that happened – I have no idea what came over me.” Dave stared at him in a manner he never had before. Stranger still, for someone who never hesitated to fill the air with the sound of his voice, his boss was absolutely silent.

 

Harold waited a beat, unsure of how to proceed.

 

“You know, Harold,” Dave’s voice spoke of something more than just plain confusion. “Your incapability to actually handle this job has made you so-- so-- well, let me put it like this:

 

“For years, I’ve had to deal with your questionable past, the fact that you know enough to barely get by but still just can’t get anything _quite_ right.” Dave paused, shaking his head in disbelief not for the first time in the last fifteen minutes. “But, whatever just happened there knocks _everything_ out of the water.”

 

“I’m sorry, but—“

 

“Apologies aren’t going to cut it this time, buddy. Now you can either finally learn your place at Greer Industries and go run those errands, or…”

 

_Or you can get fired._

 

They both knew what the alternative was.

 

They also both knew that these next few minutes were going to dictate a lot -- and not only for Harold’s future.

 

And it was almost surreal, this whole experience. This feeling of somehow being thrown into the wrong even though he seemed to be drowning in the right. Memories were still desperately vying for his attention, instinct was still pounding his heart into action. And, still, Harold couldn’t meet Dave properly in the eyes. He couldn’t even muster the will power to mumble any words at all -- further apology or otherwise. The only thing he could do was allow his eyes to instead look back into the store where—

 

Where a woman he had never before seen was standing in the doorway.

 

Except… he did know her.

 

“Harold,”

 

After all, he had watched her fade away from existence only moments before.

 

“Are you seriously choosing to zone out _now_ of all times? Buddy,”

 

“No.”

 

She watched, seemingly coming to life for just a moment.

 

“… What did you just say?”

 

Harold paused, before collecting himself -- starting with his courage.

 

“No, Dave.” His spine began to straighten. “I am not choosing to ‘zone out’ now of all times.” He met her eyes once more, before forcing his body to swivel back to Dave. “I am choosing to quit.”

 

She smirked, absolutely proud.

 

Dave laughed, disbelieving. He continued to laugh, hoping Harold would come to his senses, but that trailed off as soon as Harold properly began to stare him down.

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

“Not in the slightest.” Dave began to sneer once more at this, before shaking his head -- seemingly the only two actions he could currently excel in.

 

“Yeah, well, when you want to come back begging for your job, you just let me know.” And with that, Dave hurriedly walked back into the store, content to leave Harold outside.

 

That’s when it hit just exactly what had happened.

 

Or, rather, that’s when it began to hit him.

 

Harold paused, unable to currently do much more. Between processing it and letting the adrenaline sweep through his now shaking legs, all he could do was lean against the wall like a fool and pause.

 

“Now what?” Weary eyes scanned the doorway once more, but she was long gone. He sighed, having no idea what on Earth was going on and why he was beginning to regain memories after _twenty years_ of nothing.

 

_Well, this is just perfect._ Another word begs to replace “perfect”, but he can’t recall it at the moment and he doesn’t really want to after the last thirty minutes.

 

Who knows what it could possibly lead to.

 

“What is it you want me to do exactly?” He’s not really talking to anyone, because he has no idea who he’d even be talking to. His ex-boss was nowhere in sight, the street was empty, and any deity in the sky would most likely deem the situation irrelevant. Furthermore, Harold has long since given up on the concept of God and the Judeo-Christian belief system -- the system he suspects he was taught as a child.

 

(Still, that lack of belief doesn’t stop him from sending one half-hearted prayer towards the sky.)

 

In any case,

 

“Butcher?”

 

Prayer hardly seems to matter now.

 

“ _Butcher?_ You there?”

 

There seems to be more pressing matters at hand.

 

Harold follows the voice calling out, walks down the street and scans the area until he comes across a harried looking man.

 

“Is everything alright?” _Because I may have just quit my job and somehow abandoned my only income for a hallucination, but you look like you’re in trouble. And I apparently have_ _nothing better to do._

 

“Yeah, uh, actually, well, you see--” _It’s going to be one of those conversations, eh?_ “I can’t believe it, and it’s totally not my fault, but-- but my – my friend’s dog just took off! Like, with no warning or anything!” The man proceeds to yell at the top of his voice, calling out for some dog named Butcher.

 

“That’s an… interesting name for a dog.”

 

“Yeah, well, you see—” Much to Harold’s relief, the man doesn't elaborate on why. “Look, can you like help me find him or not?”

 

Seeing as there really wasn’t much else to do at the moment – he has no interest in walking another mile or so in the other direction to just go back and mope at his place – Harold opts to help with the search.

 

“What kind of dog did you say he was?”

 

“A German Shepherd, I think?”

 

_How nice. A dog that could probably disembowel me if need be, and said dog has been given the name “Butcher ”....  Guess I found a sign, after all._

 

Granted, big dogs and Harold never really had any interaction in the past. But that doesn’t mean this search was going to end well – especially seeing everything else that had happened in the last hour. By this point, the man's putting money on getting struck by lightning in the next hour or so, with his current luck. And if that didn’t occur, a tornado would probably sweep through and destroy his house and only his house.

 

_Happy thoughts, eh, Harold? Maybe we should just focus on the search and try not to turn into Dave while we're at it?_

 

The search ends up taking them five blocks over to the far edge of town, where they finally find the infamous Butcher.

 

(Harold's shocked to find the dog is actually far less intimidating than he expected. Furthermore, Butcher doesn't seem to pay any attention to Leon, but does seem to be intrigued by Harold. Intrigued enough he doesn't immediately growl at the sight of the newcomer, that is.)

 

Now, even though they've found the dog there is a problem: as easy as it was to have found Butcher, said canine certainly doesn’t seem interested in being reunited with his current caretaker.

 

Which is how the former tech employee finds himself limping further and further away from town, and after a dog that just doesn’t seem to give up.

 

“Man, like I don’t even want him! My friends just couldn’t stay in town and so I’m like stuck with him until they come back. And they didn’t even tell me when!” This is the fifth time Leon explained as such, and Harold really isn’t invested in finding out the whole story. All he wants is for this man to shut up and for this dog to stop running away from them.

 

“Have you ever considered renaming him? Butcher seems to be a bit of a misnomer.” _And a mouthful_. In any case, the dog may be inordinately elusive but he’s hardly violent.

 

“A misnomer?”

 

“It means that it’s not an accurate name.”

 

“Oh, man, if you think Butcher’s a good boy – think again!”

 

_… Remind me again as to why I am helping you?_

 

_._

 

Even dogs like Butcher get worn out. And when he finally does, Harold is right there with him.

 

Both in regards to exhaustion and literal proxemics.

 

_._

 

“… Do you think you can hold onto his leash and take him back home with me?”

 

_Oh, why not? It’s not as though we’re already three and a half miles away from civilization._

 

_._

 

Butcher’s home is currently the only seedy motel in the town.

 

“You said his owner was out of town?”

 

“Yeah, but those are their rides are right over there.” Ah, yes, the pick-up truck that reeks of misogyny and host of other unpleasant associations, accompanied by a few other distasteful vehicles. No wonder Butcher seems to be avoiding that area. “… They’re borrowing mine.”

 

Which is something else that doesn't make sense to Harold, and yet another concept he also doesn’t want to question.

 

_._

 

“Harold – I can call you Harold, right?” He is supposed to be tiredly walking back to his home by this point, not standing in the doorway of a motel that's hardly deserving of the name.

 

“What is it, Leon?”

 

“Butcher seems to really like you. Could you keep him?”

 

_“... What?”_

 

_._

 

Twenty minutes.

 

That’s how long it takes for Butcher to somehow end in Harold’s custody. How it happened, the ex-Greer Tech worker couldn’t really tell you.

 

All he could say is that it did happen.

 

And he now has to deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, proper Anastasia references and descending into semi-deviant behavior! Thank you for still being apart of the ride, I promise I will have another update for you soon -- have a great day!


	4. Things I've Never Remembered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! 
> 
> And this time, we've even got a song melded into the story for the Anastasia fans in the crowd ;) :)

Three days had passed since he’d quit Greer Industries. Three days to question his life decisions, glare at nothing in particular, and wonder just how he was going to properly take care of his new friend.

 

(He didn't know what Butcher's name should truly be, but he did know Butcher wasn't going to cut it.)

 

Three days. Seventy-two hours of blankly staring off into space in between half-dreams and hallucinations.

 

_“Will you tell me a story about New York? Please?”_

 

Dave was right: at this rate, he would be begging for his job by tomorrow.

 

_“‘Bargain’…. Please.”_

 

He looked up at the doorway, feeling as though someone was there.

 

It was her.

 

(These days, when was it _not_ her?)

 

The first time they had crossed paths, it had been with a rush of clarity that he met her gaze. Three days later, the shock value was finally beginning to wear off.

 

Especially in a moment like this.

 

See, although Harold had probably made a good to decision to finally leave  Greer Industries, lately he been wondering why he walked away in the first place. It had saved his sanity, sure. However, in the current light of day he couldn't help but question just how smart that decision had been.

 

Still, even with all the self-doubt currently working overtime to make up for job security, he couldn't help but think of another possibility. Within the discord he currently held, there had been another line of existence coming to mind lately. A tantalizing thought of escape, a branch of adventure that promise to sweep all of the questions away.

 

It was the possibility of just going.

 

Letting his gut decide where the open road would take him, giving himself permission to explore the infinite possibilities that rested within the world around him. Actually offering himself a chance to step out of the encroaching shadows that had drained Harold of life for _decades_.

 

… There was just one insignificant detail that would derail that possibility of "just leaving":

 

Transportation.

 

See, the hardest part of not having a car in the middle of nowhere was _leaving_ the middle of nowhere.

 

But the fascinating thing is that, every time that problem came to mind, an unorthodox solution would whisper to him an audacious plan. A plan bordering on deviancy and certainly not one he would have even contemplated less than seventy-two hours ago.

 

And, every time this particular solution came to mind, she would appear. As though to confirm the necessity of such behavior, her smile would form in the air, her approval would radiate into his being, and he would feel the lightest he'd ever felt.

 

(Until he would remember what he'd have to do in order to get started. That's when Harold would plummet back down to Earth, trying to convince himself otherwise until he would finally ask--)

 

“We’re going to have to steal a car aren’t we?”

 

At her response, he paused in disbelief.

 

“This may come off as rude, but do you only smile?”

 

For an apparition that shouldn’t be able to emit sound, something that suspiciously sounded like enchanting peals of laughter danced around him at this.

 

_._

 

After a quick surveillance of Leon’s current place of residence, he discovered two things:

 

1) Leon’s questionable friends were still not back from whatever questionable acts they were committ-- from whatever it was that they were doing out of town.

 

2) It’s surprisingly easy to hotwire a car.

 

_._

 

“How about Bruno? How does that sound?”

 

The displeasure radiating from Butcher made it clear that Bruno was not to be on the list.

 

(Though it could have been the fact that Harold was stalling this adventure that was really frustrating the canine.)

 

_._

 

Now, while hotwiring a car was easy enough, it was the act of deviance itself that provided the real challenge.

 

It was the realization that this was it, this was essentially a leap of faith that certainly wasn’t in accordance with the law. And once Harold properly began this, the man would officially become a criminal -- no matter what else he did from here on out.

 

And _that_ classification was something Harold just didn’t give himself. He could be abysmal at small talk, a genius with computers, an awkward canine whisperer of sorts apparently, but he was certainly _not_ a criminal.

 

Well, at least five minutes ago he could not be considered a criminal. Now, on the other hand….

 

“Heart, don’t fail me now.” He turned the car on, surprised it actually worked. _Courage, please don’t desert me._

 

Butcher looked up from his spot in the shotgun seat, inquisitive as always. And, if Harold had to wager a guess as to what he’d be saying -- had the canine the ability to talk -- it would have been something along the lines of “Don’t turn back now that we’re already here, human.”

 

It took him a good moment, but eventually he took the car out of park and began to back up slowly into the street.

 

“People always say life is full choices.” _And I’ve made quite a few unusual ones within the last few hours, if I do say so myself._ “No one ever mentions fear, do they?”

 

A snort that should have been impossible emanated from the seat to his right, and Harold merely chuckled at that as he put the car into drive -- too far gone with his adrenaline to do much else.

 

_Furthermore, no one seems to ever mention how the world can seem so vast on a journey to the past._ Because that’s what this was. He wasn’t running away from anything in particular, he was just speeding towards the past. Towards a faint promise he can’t quite recall, let alone remember making.

 

But it's still a promise he knows he needs to keep.

 

( _Because he needs to hold up his end of the bargain_.)

 

_“_ Somewhere down this road, I hope someone’s waiting.” Hope was always easy to cling onto for most people, but not Harold. But it was a form of hope that was guiding him today. “Memories just can’t be wrong.”

 

He felt the presence of arms opening wide just for him, imagined what it’d be like to finally be safe and wanted. Felt as though he was finally on his way to a home where he belonged.

 

Home was supposed to be in the state that he was now leaving.

 

Harold knew that couldn’t be further from the truth.

 

“Well, starting now, I’m learning fast,” _On this journey to the past._

 

They began to pick up even more speed, soon becoming just another car on the open road.

 

_Home, love, family. I may not ever get any of these things, but I have to try._

 

“There had to have been a time where I had those things, Butcher.” And, even if that was never the case… it's time to try to find it now. That cherished home, that soothing love, that beautiful family. These are all concepts that could possibly be found now, ideas that could possibly become treasures in his new life.

 

Harold wasn’t going to think about how he’s now resorting to conversing with a dog for the last three days. He's not going to reflect on the fact that a hallucination has been guiding him for the last seventy-two hours.

 

Instead, he’s going to focus on the path before him.

 

“Please,” He was willing to use the magic word for this. “Bring me home, at last.”

 

A smile began to blossom within his soul, adrenaline now letting confidence take the wheel as he--

 

“Oh, no.”

 

That’s when traffic suddenly slowed to a crawl -- some sort crazy accident of some kind up ahead by the looks of it.

 

“Oh, dear.”

 

What would normally be about a five hour drive was going to be much, _much_ longer at this rate.

 

“Of course.”

 

A sigh was released as a disbelieving head gently hit the steering wheel. A sympathetic whine came from his right.

 

“Thank you, Butcher.” The name still felt absolutely wrong as a description of the sweet dog beside him, but the sentiment was most certainly appreciated.  “I needed that.”

 

The worst part was, Harold could already feel his body ache to stretch. Furthermore, old injuries were begging him to stop and get out of the car. So, accident aside, this was going to be slow-going to say the least.

 

But, to paraphrase a favorite poem of his, Harold had miles to drive before he could sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a bonus snippet to hold you over:
> 
> “… Bingo, maybe? How about Buster?” With everything else going on, or lack thereof in this awful traffic, Harold found focusing on choosing Butcher’s name could possibly help distract him.
> 
> A huff.
> 
> “Understood.”


	5. And a Hope Someone Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had woken up from his sleep only a few hours before, memories blending further into dreams that told him where he needed to go. Taking shelter in this compact vehicle wasn’t the best way to rest, especially for a body as sensitive as his. But, if it had him waking up to further dream-like memories, he’d take it. If it gave him hints of a purpose, he’d suffer all the aches and pains that accompanied the journey. For it was these recollections, these clues of opportunity, that pushed him to get back behind the wheel. It was these moments that pushed him to take care of Butcher and to keep going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s time to make a Relevance reference and make a nice little cameo :)  
> For this first part, the italicized segments are pure song lyrics.
> 
> Also, disclaimer: my Midwestern geography is not what it once was -- and I was never an expert on Iowa or its gas stations. 
> 
> And, finally, I’m finally getting a break in my schedule. So, I'll be able to post this one tonight and the next one tomorrow!

Cornfields fluttered by as they drove down the lonely, dark highway. Stars were scattered throughout the skies, hints of change shimmering within the powerful abyss. And though he’d normally by very fascinated the stars and the skies and that abyss, Harold seemed to be under some sort of spell that deterred him from even noticing.

 

_On the wind,_

_Cross the fields,_

 

He had woken up from his sleep only a few hours before, memories blending further into dreams that told him where he needed to go. Taking shelter in this compact vehicle wasn’t the best way to rest, especially for a body as sensitive as his. But, if it had him waking up to further dream-like memories, he’d take it. If it gave him hints of a purpose, he’d suffer all the aches and pains that accompanied the journey. For it was these recollections, these clues of opportunity, that pushed him to get back behind the wheel. It was these moments that pushed him to take care of Butcher and to keep going.

 

_Hear this song_

_And remember._

 

Harold had never been able to remember a single thing about his childhood, other than his first name and a quirky fascination with birds. He didn’t know where he came from, he didn’t know if he had any family or if he had another life that his amnesia had long since stolen from him.

 

_Soon you’ll be_

_Home with me._

 

All he knew is that this is what he was supposed to be doing.

 

_Once upon a September._

 

Memories that were just out of reach towered over his mind. Buildings and familiar faces seemed to haunt the car with every flicker of light that shined through the windows.Places that he had never stepped foot inside gleamed in sight. And people he never could have met before filled the space with energy he had never before experienced.

 

And, in the midst of all of that, he could remember a soft voice. He could feel the waft of old books, and something else. Something else that was going to remain hidden until he finally reached his destination:

 

“Together in New York City.”

 

He didn’t know what awaited him there, but he knew that was where he was supposed to be.

 

And it’s in that moment when Harold realized he was almost out of gas.

 

_._

 

_Of course._

 

It was of course when he’s stuck in the middle of the Midwest -- still about 30 minutes from Mississippi River -- that there no gas stations are in sight and he’s way too close to running on empty.

 

The sky’s practically pitch black and there are three parts to the scenery: the open road, the looming emptiness above him, and the cornfields for miles around.

 

It’s only the fact that Butcher is there with him that the Harold doesn’t completely lose it.

 

“What do you think? Should we try our luck nearby?”

 

(Harold had to rescind his previous statement of maintaining sanity if he felt the urge to converse with a German Shepherd.)

 

Fortunately, the exit was coming up. Not only that, it was accompanied with signs for gas stations. How this lucky coincidence even happened, Harold would never know and he didn’t even want to try to guess.

 

(It would later strike Harold that he could have simply used his phone to look for gas stations earlier, but he pardoned this mistake by reminding himself that today -- let alone this week -- had not been a normal one.)

 

15 minutes later, he’s pulling into a local gas station and thanking everything that gas prices have been going down lately. There’s a spot right next to the exit waiting for him, and the second he can he’s out of the car.

 

It’s only when he’s out of the car that  he’s reminded of one more scenario his brain didn’t add to this bemusing equation:

 

Where on Earth was he going to sleep tonight?

 

By this point, Harold was supposed to have made it to Chicago. And while the man could probably push himself to sleep another night in the car, it didn’t seem to be the best thing -- especially seeing as how his body was begging to take a break. There had been several moments of wincing and gasping throughout the drive when he realized he’d been in the same spot for too long. Far too many moments of using the scenic overlook as a reason to stretch his legs, and he hadn’t even gotten halfway to his destination.

 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” Now, that didn’t sound like your average Midwesterner. “A gas company operating in the _21st century_ doesn’t take card?”

 

And _that_ was certainly not your average car.

 

“Is everything alright, sir?” The words of customer service were still drilled into Harold, even with the fact that 1) he was not currently employed by Greer Industries and 2) he was not employed at all currently.

 

“What do you think?” The man angrily took out his wallet, clearly nearing the end of his patience as he strutted over to the attendant. “And, of all places for this to happen, it’s in a town where there’s nothing to do. Why I even left New York--”

 

“You’re from New York?” Was drowned out by an even sharper, “Nothing to do? I’ll have you know that there’s always the old house, sir.”

 

Harold hardly glanced at the attendant as he handed over his own cash, fixated on the stranger. Only about a day into the adventure, and he was already crossing paths with a potentially New Yorker. There’s no way he could just let this opportunity drive off into the sunset if there was a chance to glean anymore information.

 

“Course I’m from New York.” It was difficult not to let out a cheer at this -- Harold was also nearing the end of his patience and decorum for the day. “And, there’s plenty of old houses out in the middle of nowhere.”

 

“Pardon me, but what part of New York? Are you from the city?” Once again, his question was overpowered by  “Well, sir, how many houses out here are haunted?”

 

“Do I look like I’m a walking encyclopedia? How should I know?” But the man seemed intrigued by the prospect, this time outright ignoring Harold’s question. “What makes this any different?”

 

“The story.” Harold didn’t really care for stories at this time of night -- especially when his body ached for shelter and reassurance, not fiction. But, he also knew that, though it was probably considered breaking and entering, a place to stay was a place to stay.

 

So, maybe, he should stick around for just a little bit. Humor the attendant instead of scurrying back to his car.

 

“Stories aren’t always reality, especially when there’s no proof.” Harold found himself speaking up, and before he knew it he was asking “Just where is this haunted house of yours?”

 

“Oh, now you’re a believer too, huh?” This time, it was the New Yorker’s snarky question that was brushed aside.

 

“Up the road, about two miles that way. You can’t miss it.”

 

“Yes, well, I’ll believe it’s haunted when I see it. Thank you.” Having taken care of the cash at hand, Harold tried to his best to nonchalantly walk back outside to fill up his tank. In any case, he mentally repeated the information to himself vigorously, determined to not make a mistake when investigating this “haunted house”.

 

“So, what’s the story?” That was the last thing the man heard as the door closed behind him. It didn’t really matter -- like the New Yorker said, haunted and worn down houses were aplenty in the Midwest.

 

Worse case scenario, he’d just find a motel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses for the cameo? Annddd, are you ready to finally meet an important couple? A couple that has a tendency to… Shoot things? ;D :)


	6. Once Upon A September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just like any other place out here -- a main house with a barn only a few yards away. The only difference was, it was a dilapidated house that captured a depressing atmosphere. Something awfully depressing clearly happened here at some point. And still, at this time of night, even with the lugubrious vibe that always accompanied this type of home, it was his best bet for shelter.

It was just like any other place out here -- a main house with a barn only a few yards away. The only difference was, it was a dilapidated house that captured a depressing atmosphere. Something awfully depressing clearly happened here at some point. And still, at this time of night, even with the lugubrious vibe that always accompanied this type of home, it was his best bet for shelter.

 

Inordinately dusty windows complete with worn-out structure, checked.

 

Decaying environment that spoke of loss all around, double checked.

 

Every step he took out of the car pulled him further into the sadness that stood before him. Having let his companion out of the car, all he could do was stare at the exhausted structure and wonder why the sight of this made his body ache even more.

 

“I think there was a fire here once, Butcher.” Only silence responded. “Butcher?”

 

Harold swiveled around, looking for his canine companion.

 

Said companion was nowhere in sight.

 

“Butcher!” _Not this_ **_again_ ** _._

 

Searching for his furry companion was not something Harold was interested in doing after 11 o’clock at night. Especially after the day he’s had, the week he’s gone through, and the unfamiliarity that’s clouded him for who knows how long.

 

“Butcher?” It was a half-hearted attempt to call the dog back, to summon his furry friend before anything else happened. But, glancing around revealed that Butcher was nowhere in sight. And there really was only one place for the dog to have gone in such a short span of time:

 

The house.

 

“Oh, dear.” Harold had hoped to have entered with Butcher by his side. Alas, it now looked like that wasn’t to be the case.

 

He wouldn’t be so foolish as to call out for anyone; the only ones in the house should be him and hopefully Butcher. Still, it was with great trepidation that he slowly limped up to the front door. Why such trepidation, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was simply the vibe of the house that set him on edge.

 

But, whatever the case may be, he knew he couldn’t stand outside for much longer.

 

It was time to unlock the next part of this little adventure.

 

Upon entering the house, Harold took note of the creaky floor and kept an ear out for Butcher. He observed the dust crawling through the air, felt the familiar realization of a great loss. All the while, he couldn’t help but notice that the house itself was a classic barnyard design of a house -- one that suitably large enough for a family, and would function in even the worst of weathers.

 

_A family._ It seemed the thought was pulling more with it than normal, for he couldn’t help but pause in his search to ponder something stirring within his brain.

 

Oddly enough, there was something more to this whole scenario than this sadness or these simple facts before him.

 

There was something... familiar.

 

Harold had long since given up on putting stock into things like ghost stories or magic -- he’s let that go for quite some time. Yet, glancing over the room again brought a blurry rush of memory to the forefront of his mind for just a second.

 

For somewhere he’d supposedly never been before, it felt like another memory from one of his dreams. In the burnt wood and destroyed interior, there were things he almost could remember. Stirrings of a past still waiting to be drawn out.

 

“And a song someone sings,” He reached out a hand, the murmur soft as his fingers slowly, reverently, graze the woodwork before him.

 

_Once upon a September._

 

The wind rustled through the door, echoing the haunting sentiment. Upon turning towards the breeze, the feeling of someone holding him safe and warm floods his senses. Looking out the window, he could almost make out a tractor being pulled through a humid storm, horses and cattles getting maneuvered through silver slivers of the sky.

 

The feelings begin to dance around him gracefully, racing across his memory. A fire crackles in the distance -- meant only to bring further warmth to what no longer is.

 

He closes his eyes, imagining the life that would have occurred here. Imagination was never his forte, it was always the concrete facts that steered him wherever he went. But in this moment, he could almost hear the sounds of a family -- the pitter patter of little feet scurrying over a worn out floor, the kitchen breathing in the sounds of homely liveliness, and --

 

He’s being guided. Memories spin him around to face the only set of stairs in the house. Old aches are pushed aside for the blissful remembrance that accompany the steps looming before him. Harold’s been here before, he’s walked up this path, he’s--

 

_“Harold,”_

 

A soothing voice is murmuring something into his hair, speaking of words he can’t hear but sentiments he can certainly feel.

 

He’s almost at the top step, and there’s a door before him, a door that has clearly seen far better days. A door he has to open.

 

The sounds of a distant tractor came back, the crackling fire once more accompanying it. Memories of shoveling mountains of snow just to reach the road greet him. Moments of letting the snowflakes fall into his hair, allowing warm hands to embrace him, watching birds take to the sky, it’s all coming back. Books, voices, sounds, they all waltz around him. People, individuals just out of sight, call out for him in ways that he still can’t quite understand.

 

For all that he can now feel, it’s still all so far away.

 

For all of the current sensory overload he’s experiencing, everything has to have been long ago.

 

The embers, the memories, begin to dim.

 

The noises fade once again, truly disappearing within the wind this time.

 

And Harold has no idea where all of this was coming from. Where it’s all fading to.

 

But these are things he can feel in his heart, things and memories that he used to know. And, these are moments he absolutely yearns to remember.

 

_“Harold.”_

 

He’s reached his destination: The destroyed door before him beckons him forth.

 

_“It’s time.”_

 

He knows that voice, but he had never heard it so clear -- so familiar.

 

His hand reaches out, desperate to finally gain another answer and further unlock the mystery behind all of this.

 

“I’d hate to be rude,” Harold jumps at the unexpected sound, whirling around before wincing in pain at such harsh movement.  “But--”

 

“I, on the other hand, am more than happy to be rude. Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! 
> 
> Three guesses as to who we just met, and the first two do not count! ;) :D  
> And, if anyone’s worried about Bea-- Butcher, he is okay. 
> 
> Furthermore, it's time for the action to properly start building! ;D :)


	7. No, Shaw, You Cannot Incapacitate Harold Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way she seems it, they have four options:
> 
> A) Incapacitate Finch and possibly Butcher, steal whatever he had on his person and get the hell out of dodge
> 
> B) Interrogate Finch, proceed to knock him out, steal whatever he had on his person, and get the hell out of dodge
> 
> C) Interrogate Finch, see what possible value he could have for them in their line of work, refrain from stealing whatever he had on his person, potentially recruit him into their little job and then get all of them the hell out of dodge
> 
> D) None of the above; just steal his car and get the hell out of dodge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lisagarland, you are an inspiration! :)

When the car had approached, all instincts told him to investigate. After all those weeks of silence, the government may have finally caught on to their little operation.

 

And, maybe, just maybe, the government realized they weren’t actually dead.

 

It was surprising that the pair hadn't already had to deal with that sort of trouble. Though that was one of the joys of working in the Midwest – lot of isolated spaces, many dead zones.

 

And no security cameras.

 

Shaw briefly looked up at the sound before resuming to clean her gun. Clearly unimpressed with the situation, judging from the lack of tension she carried.

 

Well, even if she didn’t seem to think they were in any danger, his instincts were still demanding a proper investigation.

 

“If you get shot, I’m leaving you behind.”

 

Well, at least she was honest.

 

_._

 

It wasn’t the government, that’s for sure.

 

John had snuck around the barn to observe the incoming company, gun at the ready just in case. But the stranger before him seemed to be fixated on the house, having been staring at it with his dog for the last minute. Speaking of,

 

_Nice dog._ John thought to himself, _Belgian Malinois._

 

The dog seemed a little on edge, having noticed him long before he saw it. In fact, John was finding himself getting silently approached by the canine. But, the dog wasn’t barking just yet, which meant he was currently experiencing no anxiety.

 

The bad news: Just because the dog's calm right now, doesn't mean it's about to get loud and unnecessarily violent.

 

The good news: if he was right, John knew just how to speak this particular dog’s language.

 

“ _Foei,_ ” He whispered, sharply enough to catch the dog’s ears, but soft enough it would sound like the wind to the stranger. “ _Stil!_ ”

 

The happiness that radiated off the dog at the sound of such familiar commands -- commands said dog probably hadn't heard in years -- brought a hint of smile to John’s face.

 

“I think there was a fire here once, Butcher.”

 

 A smile that faintly remained even as he was bringing his new friend back to Shaw and their little hide away.

 

“... Butcher?”

 

_._

 

“Stay here. I’ll handle this.”

 

Shaw’s surprised was more so at their new friend than the intrusion. Luckily, Butcher’s presence intrigued her enough that she listened to him for once and stayed where she was.

 

Which meant it was now time to go back and properly investigate this unusual situation.

 

_._

 

John has no interest in actually going into the house. But, after watching the back of this stranger as he walked through – as though he were in some sort of dreamlike trance from the looks of it – John felt vital information wouldn’t be obtained just by observing.

 

He’s about to open the main door when he sees the stranger begin to walk back towards the entrance. He ducks out of sight, blending seamlessly into the shadows as he waits a moment before checking the window once more.

 

_Why would he be interested in the upstairs area?_ There didn’t seem to be any appeal, especially for someone who seemed to be handicapped and would struggle on the stairs – judging from the gait.

 

“What’s he doing now? Admiring the banister?” John didn’t reveal just how close he was to twitching in surprise, but Shaw smirked in any case.

 

“What happened to watching the dog and staying where you were?”

 

“It got boring.” She glanced back into the window, unimpressed by the scene before her. “What’s the plan, oh fearless leader?” He scowled, eyes narrowing at her sarcasm.

 

“We find out what’s he doing here. Stay out of sight, in case he tries something. And we  _don't_ shoot anyone unless we have to.”

 

"You're never fun."

 

Between rolling his eyes at Shaw or quietly slipping into the house to interrogate-- investigate the situation, John opted for the latter.

 

_._

 

She was fine with the plan of just gathering information and not shooting anything. Didn’t think it was the best on Earth, but it worked for her for now.

 

That is,

 

“I hate to be rude,”

 

Until her current partner started his sixth attempt at smooth talking this week.

 

“But—”

 

“I, on the other hand,” If he was going to stand here and awkwardly flirt or some crap, she was done with the current plan. “Am more than happy to be rude. Who the hell are you and what what the hell are you doing here?”

 

She ignored John’s irritation clearly making itself known as he shot her a look, choosing to simply shrug in response. She was more focused on the stranger and his reaction to their little interruption.

 

The man before them spun around faster than she thought possible and she braced herself for an attack, ready to use the gun hidden on her person. But then he winced, quietly crying out and taking a step back to recover. She already knew from watching his gait that he suffered from some sort of permanent injury, but that action informed her that he was truly was too incapacitated to be a threat.

 

Or, at least, not a threat she couldn’t handle.

 

_._

 

John felt the urge to move forward at the sign of this stranger being in such pain, but he ignored the desire. He still didn’t have enough information to act and that lack of information made it easy to stomp out his unusual instinct.

 

“Who are you? And where’s Butcher?” Even though he was currently bent over from the pain and leaning onto the railing for dear life, the stranger sounded as though he would attempt to fight if necessary – especially for the dog.

 

It was… interesting.

 

Different than normal, that’s for sure.

 

And since she didn’t automatically fire off a sarcastic remark at the stranger's question, it seemed that Shaw was willing to let John take lead this time.

 

Probably thought it was his fault they weren’t already booking it, if anything.

 

In any case, he held the stranger’s piercing gaze. Debated about what sort of answer was the most appropriate, and knew that if he didn’t say something soon Shaw would.

 

“I’m John Reese, and this is my associate. And, Butcher,” He internally cringed at the name, thinking it wrong for the dog. “is safe.”

 

The stranger seemed to believe him, surprisingly enough. That didn't mean he wasn't still absolutely suspicious and quite unwilling to leave his spot. 

 

But there seemed to be some sort of trust, a trust that somewhat pleased John oddly enough.

 

“And does your associate have a name?”

 

“Only if you do.”

 

He bristled at this, and John was pleased to see that someone else shared his dislike for Shaw’s tone.

 

“You can call me,” The man spoke calmly, as though he were in complete control. As though he weren't currently suffering an extreme amount of pain and was definitely out of his comfort zone “Mr. Finch.”

 

Only the tension still gripping him tightly told a different story. That, and the fact that was something in those blue eyes that spoke of a greater uncertainty.

 

“And, as much as I would like to believe your statement, Mr. Reese,” Never before had his name seemed so fittingly spoken, so right. “I’m afraid you’ll have to prove the fact that Butcher is indeed safe.”

 

Funnily enough, John didn’t mind that challenge.

 

Not really.

 

_._

 

As John called for their new friend to join them, Shaw took that as a cue to properly study the stranger. Look past the obvious disability, ignore the clear flirtations happening whenever he and John talked, and properly observe him.

 

“What brought you here?” It’s blunt, and she’s pleased to say it makes Finch jump a little. But his coolly spoken response takes away that pleasure:

 

“I would like to retrieve my dog before revealing anything else, Miss Shaw.”

 

_._

 

John can’t help it, he snorts at the sound of ‘Miss Shaw’, especially when it makes his current partner glare in such a fashion.

 

Fortunately, Butcher comes back before she can throttle either man.

 

_._

 

It took more energy than he would’ve liked to go back down the stairs. But, Butcher seemed to be relatively well taken care of and the pair before him did hold up their end of the agreement.

 

In any case, when he finally makes it to the landing and they don’t immediately attack him, he’s grateful. The thing is, upon encountering these two strangers, he's had a peculiar feeling about their line of work. A feeling that, he's afraid to admit, has only grown exponentially within the last five minutes.

 

After all, who would be inclined to use an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere as a shelter of sorts?

 

Other than himself, of course.

 

_._

 

Once Finch is reunited with Butcher, she looks expectantly at her partner. The way she seems it, they have four options:

 

A) Incapacitate Finch and possibly Butcher, steal whatever he had on his person and get the hell out of dodge

 

B) Interrogate Finch, proceed to knock him out, steal whatever he had on his person, and get the hell out of dodge

 

C) Interrogate Finch, see what possible value he could have for them in their line of work, refrain from stealing whatever he had on his person, potentially recruit him into their little job and then get all of them the hell out of dodge

 

D) None of the above; just steal his car and get the hell out of dodge.

 

Personally, she’s leaning more towards Option A. However, judging from the glint in Reese’s eyes, Option A would not be happening tonight.

 

Shaw sighed. Interrogating just wasn’t that fun when it was too easy to hurt your target. And Reese seemed interest in only a verbal interrogation – which definitely took the fun out of the whole business.

 

“So, just what are you doing out here, Finch?” At the sound of 'Finch', there was a shift in the man before them. Gone now was the taken aback stranger at the top of the stairs, the one who would faint at the drop of a hat. The man before her now seemed far more private and far more calculating, and certainly far more interesting.

 

“I could ask the same of you and your associate, Miss Shaw.”

 

_._

 

“We’re just passing through.” John was silently asking Shaw to let him take lead once more on this, and it seemed that she was going to acquiesce.

 

“I see.” Though, acquisition for Shaw apparently didn’t equal silence.

 

_._

 

Honestly, Harold felt like he were in a novel. And certainly not a novel he’d normally approve of.

 

However, the further he thought this absurd situation through to its probable conclusions, the more it grew into a painful reality:

 

It truly was very possible, even to someone who never ventured out of his town in over a decade, that he had probably stumbled across some dangerous operation of some kind. In any case, he could only conclude that whatever this couple was involved with, it probably was illegal in some fashion. Furthermore, these people probably could and _would_ incapacitate him, or somehow steal everything he owned, or harm Butcher in some way, or—

 

_Or they could possibly kill me right here, right now._

 

This thought forced his gaze to look up, this fear caused him to hold the blank stare of the man standing before him. An unyielding stare that was brought him right back to the truth of the matter:

 

Harold was surrounded. Surrounded by strangers who were probably well versed in talents he never wanted to obtain. And with these particular talents, there probably would be no choice for him in these regards, no way to control what happened next.

 

_I shouldn’t have left._

 

_._

 

They’d been standing in silence for over a minute,

 

“Can we get a move on, please? Your dog’s fine and I want to go to bed.”

 

Acquisition wasn’t something Shaw cared for.

 

Especially not when it got in the way of food or sleep.

 

_._

 

Well, if he’s going to die at the hands of this peculiar pair, then that’s what's going to happen. In any case, he might as well make sure nothing bad happens to Butcher if he can help it – it’s not as though the poor dog had any choice in the matter of who took ownership over him.

 

“My apologies,” He finds himself saying, as though delaying his death or incapacitation – for that’s surely what’s next – is something worth apologizing for. “I’ve been on the road awhile, and seemed to have reached the end of my patience for the day. In any case,”

 

“What brought you to the open road, Finch?”

 

Harold raised an eyebrow, surprised that Mr. Reese was even curious.

 

Well, if these were to be his last few minutes on Earth, he might as well make the most of them.

 

“I’m looking for someone.” He holds Mr. Reese’s unending stare, resisting the urge to return to his natural defenses and hide behind scathing sarcasm.

 

“Do tell.” It's quite the silky remark, a command that was almost purred instead of simply stated. 

 

Harold almost finds himself just spilling the whole story at the sound of it.

 

However, "almost" only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.

 

“I’m not honestly sure who I'm looking for. Only that I am looking for them.” See, even in the face of this surreal experience, Harold can’t quite be forthcoming with the details.

 

_Old habits really do die hard, I suppose._

In any case, Mr. Reese hardly bats an eyelash at this, still maintaining that piercing stare.

 

“Do you have at least have a location? Or is that also something you just don't know?" Miss Shaw's certainly impertinent, judging by her questions.

 

Fortunately, this is a question he can properly answer.

 

“New York City.”

 

And, with the name of his destination finally verbalized, it feels as though everything's really beginning to delve into truth. As though the whole insane idea is finally starting to become real.

 

“New York City.” Mr. Reese murmurs this and something else as well – something that’s caught by the wind before Harold can even snatch a hint.

 

Mr. Reese – Vigilante? Criminal? Deviant of some kind? – shared a look with Miss Shaw. A look that told Harold two things:

 

1) He was going to have absolutely no control over whatever happened next.

 

2) Even with that clear incapability in regards to having any say in the matter, even with the whole situation being as crazy as it seemed, he trusted this Mr. Reese.

 

There was absolutely no reason to, but he still did.

 

“The Midwest _is_ getting boring, Reese.” Miss Shaw glanced back at Harold, smirking. “New York, on the other hand, could be fun.”

 

Harold’s back seemed to protest at Miss Shaw’s version of fun, something that didn’t escape Mr. Reese’s attention.

 

“We’ll head out in the morning. First,” He took a step towards Harold. “I think we need to get you to bed.”

 

“You mean,” Harold’s speaking before he even realizes he’s opened his mouth, “You’re _not_ going to kill me?”

 

Miss Shaw snorts, whereas Mr. Reese simply fixes him another look.

 

“You won’t be dying tonight, Finch. Not by our hands, at least.”

 

Those words shouldn’t have been attached to such a nonchalant tone. Honestly, this whole ordeal belonged to a novel or the Internet, not reality. 

 

And Harold shouldn't have felt as reassured as he currently did. He also shouldn't be feeling as though he would now not want to trade this terrifyingly exhilarating adventure for anything. But that, too, was a feeling currently coursing through his veins.

 

“Though, if you die, I’m keeping the dog.”

 

“Shaw,” Mr. Reese started to growl in warning, but Harold could only weakly laugh. After all, the situation was beginning to ease up on the intensity. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off – and the shock, too, for that matter.

 

Which meant Harold was incredibly close to becoming reacquainted with the floor.

 

“Easy there, Finch.”

 

Fortunately, quite possibly for the first time in forever, he would not be alone in this reacquaintance.

 

Nor, Harold was beginning to suspect, would he be alone in general.

 

_How strange--_

 

Strong arms are gently guiding him towards the barn, adjusting to his pace and allowing him to lean for support.

 

_... How nice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this quite possibly now in the land of pure crack?
> 
> Yup.
> 
> Am I still committed to taking this seriously and guiding it to what is hopefully a fabulous end?
> 
> Absolutely.


	8. If Finch Can Learn It, Shaw Can, Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not realize how much I needed to write this chapter until I started writing this chapter. And I also didn't realize how long it's been since an update for this story >_<
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience! I absolutely intend on finishing this :) And I hope you enjoy this next segment!
> 
> (Also, keep an eye out for a reference or two to the show ;) as well as the spoken-word equivalent of the next song in Anastasia ^_^)

_“Harold,_ ”

 

The voice stirred him from the first proper sleep he'd had in a week. He smiled, comforted by the sound of someone caring enough about him to try to wake him up in calming fashion. Perhaps even just the fact that there was someone else in the room brought forth a relaxed curve of his lips.

 

_“Harold, it's time to_ wake up.”

 

Bleary eyes warmly crinkled at the sound and opened to reveal not the countenance of his hallucination, but of Mr. Reese.

 

_Oh-- wait, what?_

 

The man was watching him closely, eyes reflecting nothing of whatever had been on his mind. But, no matter -- Harold was already jolted awake and now wincing in pain.

 

After all, one simply did not scurry across state lines in his condition -- although, he hadn't even made it to Illinois yet. So perhaps it wasn't even scurrying across state lines that had--

 

“Easy there, Finch.” A hand shot out to stop him in his tracks. Harold froze, allowing the hand to slowly maneuver him back onto lying down on the bed. “We've got a few more minutes before we're supposed to head out.”

 

“Reese, if he's still there in ten minutes I'm taking the dog.” Miss Shaw's voice threatened from outside the barn. Mr. Reese paused, letting Harold see a flicker of something for just a second. However, whatever that something was, it disappeared before Harold could even think to figure it out.

 

“So, more like we've got five minutes.” The remark brought them both back to the present -- and to the fact that Mr. Reese still had a hand on Harold. Said hand released itself almost instantly, bringing with it an odd absence.

 

But before Harold could question his own thoughts about that action, another question sprung to mind:

 

“We're heading out?” Mr. Reese just looked at him, and Harold swear he could see a smirk within that serious expression.

 

“Don’t see how we can make it to New York if we stay here, Finch.”

 

“We're going to New York?” Another memory forces itself to the forefront of his mind -- causing him to wince even more than usual. He's still not quite used to the experience of actually recalling his past, something that Mr. Reese appears to have noticed.

 

“Yeah, we're going to New York. But, first,” He fixes a scrutinizing gaze on Harold. “We're making a pit stop.”

 

_._

 

She glanced back at the entrance to the barn, impatiently waiting on them.

 

“Quit flirting before I shoot someone.” Butcher whined at the remark, as though he understood what Shaw was threatening and didn't approve in the slightest.

 

“Okay, okay.” She looked at the dog again. “Quit flirting before I shoot some _thing_. Happy?”

 

Butcher didn't seem to be any more or less happy by this remark, something that surprisingly bothered her. And sure, it only bothered her a little, but still.

 

_._

 

Once everyone had maneuvered themselves into the car, it had been one of those awkward silences. The ones that only occur when two vigilantes, an ex-tech employee, and a Belgian Malinois are in the car.

 

The good news: it had only taken thirty minutes for Reese to pull over into a parking lot to take a break.

 

The bad news: Harold didn't know why they even needed to make this pit stop.

 

“You allergic to any medications?”

 

“None that I know of, but—” The doors were opened and shut before anything else could be said. And for the next few minutes Harold was left to wonder just what it was that his two new traveling companions were going to do.

 

Perhaps, this was one of those rare times where ignorance truly was bliss.

 

_._

 

They left him in the car with Butcher for about 10 minutes -- not that he was staring at the clock for the entire time.

 

In any case, before he knew it, his door was being opened once more.

 

“Hold this for a moment, will you?” Manners kicked in before common sense could take over and he grabbed the white paper bag without thinking.

 

“Wait a minute,” But his door was already closed and they were now taking their seats. “This medication isn't for me--”

 

“No take backs,” Shaw muttered as the engine came to life.

 

“But, Miss Shaw,”

 

“Finch,” She just wasn't interested. “I got what you needed. Now, take the pills willingly or John here can force feed them.”

 

Well, with an offer like that, how could he refuse?

 

_._

 

It was surprisingly how quick it took for the pain medication to take ahold of Harold.

 

And, once it did take effect, Shaw and Reese understood why Harold had been hesitant to medicate himself.

 

_._

 

“Mr. Reese, did I ever tell you I was born in a palace by the sea?”

 

“A palace by the sea?” Seeing as how Finch's tone was far… looser than John had ever heard it, he could only assume the meds had kicked in.

 

“Yes, that's right.”

 

Finch was quiet for another minute, and John thought it was over.

 

That is, of course, when it started up again.

 

“I also knew how go horseback riding when I was only three.”

 

“Horseback riding, you?” Now John could absolutely confirm the man sitting next to him was as high as a kite.

 

“And, the horse, he was white--”

 

“Make it stop.” Came the irritated request from the back seat. But, John had a different opinion on the matter.

 

“He might give us some legitimate information, Shaw, let's see where this goes.” Without looking, he knew she was rolling her eyes at him.

 

“I was inordinately wild as a child, too, I'll have you know.”

 

“I'm sure you wrote the book, Finch.”

 

“Of course! That book as well as _Our Mutual Friend_!”

 

Now, adults did not titter when it came to laughter. Nor did they snicker and snort while making references to obscure Dickens novels.

 

Finch was proving an exception in both matters currently.

 

“I can only imagine how it was," Reese said, surprisingly okay with the current chain of events. "Writing about--” 

 

“My long forgotten past?” Harold supplied, grinning. “Well, I’ve got lots to teach you and the time is going fast!”

 

“Please,  _please_ stop.”

 

“Miss Shaw,” Harold turned his body as best as he could to the woman in the back. “You’re not doing yourselves any favors sitting like that! You must sit with your shoulders back. And if you were standing, you should be standing tall -- not slouched over and impersonating Mr. Reese!”

 

She cocked an eyebrow, quite unimpressed with his critique. But, even Shaw could recognize blackmail material when it was looking right at her.

 

“In any case,” Harold continued, “Seeing as how we are currently in a car, we could only try working on your posture. So, I won’t try to work on your method of walking."

 

“What about my ‘method of walking’, Finch?”

 

“Shaw--”

 

“Just remember,” Harold faced the front, absolutely pleased with himself and totally unaware of Shaw's current feelings towards him. “If I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it. I’m sure something in you knows it. And, if anything, there’s nothing to it.”

 

Shaw went back to staring at the window, wondering how on Earth she ended up in this situation. 

 

“Follow in my footsteps, shoe by shoe. You can learn to do it, too!” John couldn’t help but snort at this, unintentionally grabbing Harold’s attention.

 

“You have some yourself, Mr. Reese!” He stiffened at this statement. “Elbows in and sit up straight. After all, if you were eating stroganoff--”

 

“I’ve never cared for stroganoff, Finch.”

 

“-- you wouldn’t want to consume it in such a fashion.”

 

“Personally, I’d be more interested in caviar.”

 

“ _Personally,_ you owe me steak for this.”

 

“How about dessert and then we call it a night?” The back and forth continued as the duo temporarily ignored their third passenger.

 

Well, being ignored was just not going to cut it for Finch today, he’ll have you know.

 

“No dessert _or_ steak until you get this right! Remember,” Harold pulled himself back up to his highest height, absolutely medicated to fullest degree by this point and undoubtedly going to forget all about this by tomorrow. “If I can learn to do it,”

 

“If he can learn to do it,” Reese chimed in, suppressing a grin at Shaw’s quiet growl.

 

“Not you, too.”

 

“You can learn to do it.” Harold continued, oblivious. “Pull yourself, Miss Shaw, and you’ll pull through it. Tell yourself it’s easy and it’s true: you can learn to do it, too.”

 

Reese looked in the rearview mirror and studied Sameen carefully. His gut told him she was probably not at all pleased about Finch trying to "help" her in such a fashion.

 

“Shaw, even for you, incapacitating Finch would be a new low.”

 

“You don’t know that.” But, at his comment she went back to properly sitting in her seat.

 

“Mr. Reese, did you ever memorize the names of the Romanovs? The Russian royal family, that is.” John contemplated the question, while Shaw looked ready to strangle their latest companion.

 

“I don’t believe so.”

 

“Would you like to?” Chicago was still thirty minutes away, but John was not that desperate.

 

“How about later?” Harold nodded, far more thrilled at the aspect than John felt the situation warranted.

 

“Okay!”

 

And so they fell back into another brief respite, regaining back the calm from earlier. 

 

Surprisingly enough, it wasn't Finch who broke the silence next.

 

“Finch, is there a reason you have this fascination with Russian royalty?” The man in question smiled at this, but it seemed different than the unusual giddiness he’d been expressing for the last thirty minutes. Rather, the upward curve to his lips twitched with melancholy and his eyes crinkled in a depressingly wistful fashion.

 

“You know of how the Romanovs ended their reign, I presume?" At John's nod, Harold continued. "And I can also safely assume you've heard the stories of Anastasia as well?"

"Yeah."

 

"Well, while the legend of Anastasia is probably only just a legend, Mr. Reese, I admire the idea of being able to find one’s family again.” John sensed there was more to the story than just that. But, he also sensed that Harold probably would kick himself for explaining it any further -- he seemed like a private kind of person.

 

And, with that, the mood of the car ride plummeted a bit. John didn’t really have any further response to Harold's remark, Butcher seemed to be asleep, and Shaw just sat in the back. After a few minutes, even Harold seemed to retreat into himself -- something that made the shift in mood feel even more uncomfortable.

 

And with the scenery just being a mixture of flatlands and cement, there literally wasn't much to look forward to in the current situation.

 

“So,” Shaw began, surprising them all, “If you can learn to do it, I can learn to do it.” Harold started at this, looking in the mirror to see she had a faint smile and was sitting up far straighter than before.

 

“I don’t know how you knew it, Miss Shaw.” She shrugged in response, content to remain somewhat of an enigma.

 

“I simply knew it.” She straightened up even further, catching sight of a familiar city coming closer and closer.

 

“Pull yourself together,” John muttered, also noticing that the downtown Chicago area was approaching. “And you’ll pull through it.”

 

“Exactly!” Harold said, regaining some of his earlier cheer at the sight of these new skyscrapers and gorgeous buildings. “Tell yourself it’s easy, and it’s true.”

 

“You can learn to do it--”

 

“Nothing to it,” He just had to chime in once more in excitement. For, already, as they were coming in from the West side of the city they were beginning to get a spectacular view.

 

“You can learn to do it, too!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I have a few ideas on how to continue this. However, since the holiday season is right around the corner: what would you like to see?
> 
> We can try to follow the movie's format, we can deviate altogether, we can do a mixture of both, I'm down to consider ideas :) Just let me know what you'd be interested in!


	9. Windy Cities, Libraries, Pick-pocketers, Oh My!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re taking a break from the Anastasia storyline to have some good ol' POI fun in the Windy City! And for those waiting for one more character to finally make an appearance, the wait now comes to an end ;D

Perhaps it was for the best that Harold somehow ended up falling asleep as they drove around the Windy City. The unfamiliar and elegant skyscrapers that loomed before him, even when covered in grey skies and a snowy blanket of frost, somehow managed comforted him.

 

“Well that was fun.” Shaw muttered from the back seat. “What's next?’

 

Reese glanced back at her, bemused.

 

“We can rest here for few days, regain our bearings as well as some supplies.”

 

“Now, _that_ is actual fun.”

 

_._

 

Surprisingly enough, waking up in an unfamiliar room with no recollection of why he was there in first place was _not_ the strangest part of his week.

 

“Finch?”

 

_Oh, good, Mr. Reese is here to witness me in this state._

 

He closed his eyes and quietly sighed.

 

“There is a reason I refrain from medicating myself, Mr. Reese.” Though, honestly, if pain meds were the trade-off for getting to New York then that’s what needed to happen.

 

“So we learned.” The man conceded, and Harold cracked open an eye. Rarely in the last decade had he had a conversation that didn’t turn into defensiveness. So seldom was it, that Harold had no appropriate response for a solid moment.

 

“Where is MIss Shaw?”

 

“Out.” Reese met Finch’s inquisitive stare. “Shaw’s running a few errands.”

 

_._

 

She stalked the streets of Chicago, blending into the shadows with ease. By now, Reese will have informed FInch that she went out to run some errands.

 

What he won’t have probably mentioned is just what those errands entailed.

 

_._

 

“Did Miss Shaw mentioned whether or not she wanted us to wait for her return?”

 

Mr. Reese glanced at his phone, before looking at Finch.

 

“Not specifically.”

 

_But she did imply it._

 

_._

 

She had been walking down one of the busiest streets in the city --  Michigan Avenue- -- when their paths first crossed.

 

Normally, Shaw would only be focused on the people she intended to pickpocket. But, when she noticed that this woman had similar tastes in regards to targets…. Well, action had to be taken.

 

Especially when the fellow criminal seemed more interested in teasing Shaw by pickpocketing the woman’s intended targets.

 

_._

 

“Finch,”

 

“Mr. Reese, am I correct in believing that Miss Shaw never explicitly told you that we couldn’t leave the room?”

 

“Yeah, but--”

 

“C’mon, Butcher, let’s go stretch our legs and see if we can come up with a better name for you.”

 

“Finch.”

 

“Mr. Reese, you are free to join me, should you wish.”

  


_._

 

After a while, it became clear that the woman was not going to give up on being such a tease.

 

They had traveled down the Magnificent Mile, through throngs of people and street performers. Shaw only “took care of” half of what she wanted to, and she was getting irritated.

 

So, when the woman turned onto Washington, Shaw picked up the pace. When she then ducked into what seemed to be some type of alley-equivalent, Sameen knew it was time to get some answers.

 

But, upon turning the corner, there was no woman to be found.

  


“Since you’ve been following me for the last three hours, you can call me Root.” A coy voice sounded, and Shaw pivoted around only to be pinned to the grimy wall behind her. “What’s your name?”

 

_._

 

“So, where are we going?” They stood outside, leaving what Harold could deduce was some form of hostel instead of an official motel.

 

Either way, having been in a car for the last few days and just needing fresh air, it didn’t matter. He glanced around, listening to the city sounds now permeating his senses: the chatter of strangers, the cars zooming down nearby streets, the screeching sirens somewhere in the distant, music faintly coming from down the street, all this noise and chaos was quite foreign to him.

 

But, once Harold realized just where he was, another memory poked at him.

 

An inordinately grand red building stood before Harold, but upon blinking it vanished into the townhouses surrounding the area. The smell of paper wafted out amongst the hints of urban life, fading as he tried to recall it within the haze of smell around him. Pages were being turned amongst all this chaos. And a name called itself to him, whispering to Harold under the cars and city life.

 

_._

 

They’d been locked in silence, Shaw refusing to budge and Root just waiting.

 

“I can always use one of these,” She brought out the knife, keeping Shaw pinned. But the vigilante looked quite unimpressed.

 

“One of the things I don’t think you understand,” Shaw spoke off-handedly, meeting the woman’s stare head on, “I kind of enjoy this thing.”

 

Root grinned eagerly at this, her eyes glowing with a fascinating excitement.

 

“I am so glad you said that. I do, too.”

 

They stood maybe a foot apart from each other, eyes still boring into each other quite easily as the knife was brought closer.

 

That’s when Shaw’s phone started ringing, interrupting their little moment. Sameen rolled her eyes and picked up the phone.

 

“Yes?”

 

Root tried to eavesdrop, but only got so far.

 

“What are you, my mother?” Shaw almost growled in response, before somehow disarming Root and slipping out of her attempt at pinning.

 

“Oh,” The brunette murmured to herself, watching Shaw walk off “Just as we were starting to connect.” The vigilante then hung up the phone in irritation, picking up the pace.

 

“If you’re gonna just stand there, that works for me.” Shaw called over her shoulder, continuing back down Washington.

 

Root apparently didn’t need much more of an invitation.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

Shaw looked up, taking note of the Macy’s in front of them -- a seven story building that screamed luxury, wealth, and gullible shoppers.

 

“Gotta start heading back home.”

 

Sameen led Root into the department store.

 

“But, I figured I’d run one last errand.

 

_._

 

John wasn’t necessarily content to just follow Finch through an unfamiliar city.

 

But, he also wasn’t content to let Finch just wander through an unfamiliar city by himself.

 

And so, when the man pointed them in the direction of the train, John resigned himself to go on whatever tourist adventure Harold wanted to go on.

 

So long as Butcher was by their side.

 

Speaking of, "What names are coming to mind?"

 

Harold chuckled, looking at their canine in question. 

 

"I've been pondering this ever since I first met him. I'm afraid I'm at a lost."

 

John nodded at this, looking at the dog before scanning the city for any signs of inspiration. Upon catching an ad on a billboard quite a few yards away, he was struck with inspiration.

 

"How about Bear?"

 

Harold looked at him, thinking over the name.

 

"How does 'Bear' sound?" He asked the Belgian Malinois in question, who perked up at the name.

 

"I think we've picked a winner."

 

_._

 

“Spray me with perfume and you’ll find out how to properly use a knife.”

 

“Understood,” She put down the bottle, still smirking. “How about a makeover instead?”

 

_._

 

It took quite some time to navigate through the Loop and the CTA as a whole, but after five minutes of figuring out the Ventra card system and thirty minutes of riding the brown line, Harold was ushering them off the train and onto the street.

 

"Welcome, Mr. Reese, to one of the best libraries in the Midwest." John couldn't help but gape at the nine story building in front of him.

 

“ _That’_ s a library?” Harold smiled at this, gazing up at the gorgeous building before him.

 

“The Harold Washington Library.” His eyes traveled up the granite and red brick creation to peruse the great horned owl permanently perched over the main entrance. Wisdom emanated from every inch, knowledge radiated down the bricks, and it was an awe inspiring sight to say the least.

 

“Shall we go inside, Mr. Reese?”

 

_._

 

She walked past the directories nonchalantly, reading them all with ease.

 

“Bingo.”

 

With all the shopping sections organized as such, this was going to be a piece of cake.

 

“So, is this normally how you spend your free time?”

 

_._

 

“It’s funny,” Harold confessed,“I have been so fascinated with New York that I forgot the wonders that lie elsewhere.”

 

As they entered the marble lobby of the library, an elegant hall that stole their breath the minute they walked in, Harold made sure to exaggerate his limp just a little bit -- so as to subtly convince the security that Butcher’s presence was absolutely necessary.

 

Fortunately, they were left alone to stand in and admire the hall before them.

 

“Shall we go up?” Harold gestured to the only escalator going up. Mr. Reese nodded, leading the way.

 

But, after stepping onto the escalator and catching a look at the ceiling, another fact caught his attention.

 

“Mr. Reese, did you know that--”

 

“This is the only Vietnam memorial outside of D.C.?”

 

They stared at the dog tags hanging high above their heads. The dog tags swayed every so slightly from the ceiling, and if one weren’t looking closely one would think they were looking at stunning silver ripples of modern art.

 

Well, it was art in a sense. And a tribute to memory as well.

 

_._

 

Thirty minutes of subtly lifting wallets and cards from various shoppers was normally just another mission.

 

With Root around, softly making snarky commentary whenever the situation called for it, it was a little different.

 

Maybe even enjoyable.

 

_._

 

“Is this your first time to the Harold Washington library?” Even though they were already past the main entrance, the worker behind the desk could tell they were new to it all.

 

“Is it that obvious?” Harold joked, coaxing laughter out of the man while John scanned the perimeter out of habit.

 

“Don’t worry.” The CPL worker reassured with a lovely smile, “I was just going to say that, if it’s your time, you should definitely check out the Winter Garden on the 9th floor.”

 

“‘Winter Garden’?” “‘9th floor’?”

 

“Yup. It’s the perfect place to visit, especially during a quiet hour like this.”

 

_._

 

“Let’s head back to the train,” Shaw muttered, as she knew it was getting time to leave before they got caught.

 

“Sure. But do you even know how to get out of here?” Root smirked as Shaw glowered. “Allow me to lead the way.”

 

_._

 

Several minutes later, after asking a few more CPL workers and going down a few more wrong turns, they were finally on the escalator that would take them to the garden.

 

“Can you imagine, Mr. Reese, a garden in the middle of a library?”

 

“I think I’ll be able to, in about a minute.” Harold scoffed underneath a faint smile, as they stepped forth into--

 

“Whoa.” It was an uncharacteristic remark, but this was quite the uncharacteristic situation.

 

The gorgeous sky glowed through the glass roof. Metal was interwoven with glass to create a breathtaking view of the clouds and allow gentle sunlight to pierce the room. The floor itself was just as elegant, with marble gracefully stretching out into every corner of the room to create a sense of authentic grandeur. The air itself contained hints of beautifully captivating knowledge and splendor. And there were indeed lovely plants and trees taking root amongst it all, allowing life to thrive in such a beautiful setting.

 

In short, neither of them had any interest in leaving any time soon.

 

_._

 

They strode through the downtown area, following the Loop’s trail in silence. The Loop was the part of the public transportation that essentially floated above the streets of Chicago. Almost every train ran through the Loop (or the L, for short). And, so, if one found the L, one could get to practically any part of the city.

 

“Well, that was fun. Where to next?” Sameen looked at her in disbelief.

 

“I’m going back home. You’re going wherever you go whenever you’re not around me.” Root shook her head in a form of disappointment that somehow managed to be still lined with coquettish thoughts.

 

“You sure you know where you’re going? It's quite the city.”

 

_Even if I didn’t, do you really think I’d tell you?_

 

Though, as Shaw started to walk away, she thought she heard one more remark.

 

“Same time tomorrow?”

 

She rolled her eyes, turning around to glare at the woman once more, before heading in the direction of the train. Root merely grinned in response, waving goodbye in a lighthearted manner -- as though they'd been spending the day sightseeing instead of being common criminals. And, though Shaw would never have caught it, Root had made one final comment in response:

 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”


	10. Of Delays and Secrets Finally Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been one heck of a month -- and it's not even over yet. 
> 
> Still, my intention is to finish this little story before the new year! So, even though this update is a little shorter than normal, consider this chapter to one of "We're getting back into the swing of the story" with a little further relationship development on the Rinch end.
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoy :)

Go figure that when they’ve finally “made” enough money to be on their way, their car breaks down within five minutes of driving.

 

“I think I remember something about working on a car once,” Harold murmured to himself, not really focused on the proceedings around him. 

 

“That’s nice.” Shaw’s sarcastic at best in this moment, because the only idea she’s coming up with is  _ not  _ one she wants to act on. “Watch Finch and make sure he doesn’t blow himself up when he finds out we can’t drive this. I’m going to get us a new car.”

 

John stopped her before she headed off. “Even for you, stealing someone’s car is a new low, Shaw.”

 

“You can’t possibly believe that.” She pulled her arm free from his grip, “Besides, I wouldn't be the one stealing it.”  

 

_._

 

It only took an hour or so for Shaw to finish running her little errand.

 

But, when she came back -- sitting shotgun and looking incredibly unimpressed with the woman driving their new vehicle -- they knew it hadn’t gone quite as perfectly as possible.

 

“You can call me Root,” The brunette said with a winning smile. 

 

Shaw just rolled her eyes at the driver.

 

“She wouldn’t leave me alone.”

 

John didn’t look particularly impressed.

 

“Says she knows the best way to get into New York under the radar.” Which, isn’t all that impossible for people in their old line of work, but is worthy of note. “Also says she knows how to track down missing people and vice versa.”

 

Harold blinked at this, never having brought up his search after that first evening. But, an opportunity to find his family was an opportunity to find his family.

 

Even if she seemed a little too sweet to be fully trusted.

_._

 

They’re not even halfway through Ohio, driving near Toledo, when Harold wakes up from a car nap and  _ really  _ thinks about what it is he’s doing here. How he’s with people who are essentially strangers but are just as essentially the only ones he’s really trusted in the last twenty years. How he’s gone from working at a hellish tech shop in the middle-of-nowhere, Iowa to now traveling with potential criminals into the “Big Apple”. 

 

Suffice to say, the whole situation is a churning mix of overwhelming and inordinately unnerving.

 

And there’s not a lot that makes it feel any better.

 

For instance, the fact that his hallucination hasn’t dropped by once since he met Mr. Reese and Miss Shaw should probably be reassuring. But all Harold could find himself foolishly wanting was for her to show up again, as though her mere presence would take away all the confusion and help to process this whole situation. Not only that, this whole encounter felt like something out of a Lewis Carroll novel -- something he'd only ever want to read, not experience.

 

“Finch?” Mr. Reese was sequestered in the back of their little car with him, alongside Bear. And it was his quiet tone, accompanied by the Belgian Malinois’s presence that brought Harold out of panicking mode and into something a little more calming.

 

“Just thinking everything over, Mr. Reese.” Had it been Miss Shaw or even Miss Groves -- Root’s actual name that had only taken him a few hours to unearth, fortunately -- that had asked, he might have lied. 

 

But, this was Mr. Reese.

 

And as such, lying to him wasn’t even a consideration, let alone an option.

 

“Though, all things considered,” Harold began to speak in a wry fashion, finally shaking off the momentary panic. “Recalling everything that has occurred within the last week, I find I must insist on sharing: it’s Harold.”

 

John froze, taking in the unexpected information.

 

“Harold,” He repeated the name slowly, as though tasting the feel of it. The man in question seemed to relax a little bit at the sound, feeling like the burden of total anonymity was lifted ever so slightly from his shoulders. Something that, oddly enough, he found to be quite refreshing.

 

“Yes. And, as you may have already figured out, I am looking for my family. To condense a very long story into only a few minutes, I've been suffering from amnesia for the twenty years. And that is something that only just changed very recently. About a week ago, in fact.”

 

And, so, Harold began to properly fill John in on his current purpose and the real reason he was where he was in life.

 

Quite honestly, it had never felt this relieving to share such information before. 


	11. Dream a Little Dream For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy and Merry Christmas to any and all who celebrate! We’re getting closer and closer to the conclusion of this little story -- thank you so much for your patience and support!
> 
> As such, here's a little present to bring us one step closer :)

 

It was with an unusually light heart that Harold eventually retired to their motel room, ahead of everyone else. They had finally decided to stop for a night near Youngstown, Ohio, and he was frankly exhausted from revealing the whole situation.

 

But, it seemed that sleep was going to evade him still. For, as Harold laid down in bed, he found that his tired mind seemed to buzz with numerous thoughts. His heart began to ache with a new type of heaviness -- one that came with trusting people for once. 

 

_ What will John be thinking of my story?  _

 

_ Will they still be inclined to help if they think I’m crazy?   _

 

Several scenarios of abandonment began to flitter around his mind, forcing him to turn in his sleep -- something his body did not appreciate. He tried to focus on anything -- the streetlights clearly visible across the road, the itchy material of the blankets that were still a step up from his own. The bed that had to be a double to save on costs was larger than any he’d own in the last twenty years, the space somewhat isolating in this particular moment.

 

Still, even minds that can’t help but run through all of the worst-case scenarios eventually succumb to sleep.

 

Even if it’s for just a few minutes.

 

_._

 

When he woke up again, he’s not alone.

 

“You’re back!” He can’t help but cry, relieved that only his hallucination is here -- shouting out at hallucinations is not guaranteed to help his case that he’s crazy, after all.

 

She smiled warmly at this, and he managed to pull himself out of bed before making his way to her.

 

“Can you believe that I’ve actually missed your smile?” She silently snickers at this, her mouth curving into a grin.

 

Then it hits him that the others are still not back. 

 

Fortunately, a look at the time, “8:23pm, it’s only been a little under an hour,” tells him why:

 

After all, Miss Shaw and Miss Groves -- as the latter eventually revealed to him -- hardly seemed like the type to go to bed earlier than midnight. And, though John didn’t seem interested in frequently staying up late, he probably wanted to make sure the two women didn’t burn the town in a fit of boredom.

 

In any case, there was something more pressing currently.

 

“Is everything alright?” For her smile seemed a little more strained, and Harold thought he detected hints of water making their way down her face. She mouthed something to him, something he couldn’t quite read.

 

“I’m sorry, but can you repeat that?” She nodded, silently enunciating the words she wished to convey.

 

_ “I’m so proud of you.”  _

 

He stood still, unable to do much more. 

 

And, suddenly, he found himself irrationally reaching out to hug her.

 

But, the good news was that she didn’t disappear upon the familial embrace. Rather, he felt a soothing energy envelope him, as the hazy glow that always accompanied her seemed to absorb itself into his skin.

 

They stood in comforting silence, as all the tension and fears bled out of Harold. The concerns that had nattered away at his thoughts were now being brushed aside in lieu of trusting silence. His literal aches and emotional pains became soothed by her serene light.

 

After a little while, she had stepped out of the hug. 

 

She wanted now to guide him. 

 

Harold opened his eyes to see that she wanted him to try sleeping once again, to give his body legitimate rest.

 

And, after a moment, he found himself walking back to the bed. She stayed close for the first minutes, as he laid back down on the mattress and focused solely on maintaining a calm breath.

 

But, only a minute later, it became clear that he had indeed been ready to rest.

She smiled once more, glowing tears gently hitting and dissipating into the floor, before she eventually vanished.

 

_._

 

“Let’s try not to wake up Harold, guys.” Shaw had had a little too much to drink, thus explaining the uncharacteristic tone now emanating from the woman. “Wouldn’t want him to tell just what we’ve been up to this evening.”

 

After the recluse had retired to their motel room, the trio found themselves pondering the whole plan over a drink. Or, rather, Reese kept an eye on Root -- still not fully trusting her -- as Shaw proceeded to outdrink everyone in the vicinity. Discussion on Harold inevitably ensued, but only after John made sure that his partner wasn’t about to loudly “discuss” the matter with any stranger who’d listen.

 

“It wouldn’t be us waking him, Shaw.” Came the warning growl, causing Root to let out a snort.

 

They slowly opened the door after using the key, quietly creeping into the room. John went first, not only to make sure Shaw didn’t immediately turn the lights on as a joke, but also to make sure that Harold wouldn’t be taken aback by their return.

 

Root and Shaw followed, heading towards the bed not currently occupied. 

 

The problem with motel rooms is that it was sometimes cheaper just to get two doubles. 

 

John had not been looking forward to this -- feeling as though it would be invading the recluse’s privacy and make the man uncomfortable if they had to share a bed.

 

Luck seemed to be on his side for this one: Harold -- for ever since John heard the name, he was determined to use it whenever he could -- was fast asleep.

 

After a few minutes of changing and getting ready for bed, the ex-vigilante slowly took the other side. He was careful not to wake the other man, certainly not interested in creating any awkwardness for either of them.

 

“Try not to have too much fun,” Root teasingly whispered from her bed, much to his irritation.

 

Fortunately, focusing on Harold made all irritation leave him. The man in question slept with an ease that John had never observed before. There was even a hint of a smile, of having found peace, resting within those lips.

 

And, as sleep began to overtake John, he could only hope for the same.

 

_._

 

If the two slowly inched towards one another in the night, waking up to find themselves far closer than intended, it wasn’t mentioned.

 

Nor was it really questioned, for once.

 

Oddly enough, it was simply accepted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, we were going to have a similar scene to the one Anastasia experiences when she has her own dream that turns into a nightmare. But, on a day like today, I simply had to give Harold hope. 
> 
> Next stop, New York City!
> 
> And, as always, have a great day!

**Author's Note:**

> It's not going to be sad forever, I promise! And, it might take a little bit for the next update, but I promise it's not going to be sad forever ♥


End file.
